“And you meant to kill me?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I wish to God you had!” Burr cried out, with a sudden fierce anger at himself and her; and now he hurried on faster than she.
Lot was quite motionless when they reached him. Burr threw himself down in the snow and leaned his ear to his cousin's heart. Madelon stood over them, panting. Suddenly a merry roulade of whistling broke the awful stillness. Two men were coming down the road whistling “Roy's Wife of Alidivalloch” as clearly soft and sweet as flutes, accented with human gayety and mirth.
On came the merry whistlers. Burr sprang up and grasped Madelon Hautville's arm. “He isn't dead,” he whispered, hoarsely. “Somebody's coming. Go home, quick!”
But Madelon looked at him with despairing obstinacy. “I'll stay,” said she.
“I tell you, go! Somebody is coming. I'll get help. I'll send for the doctor. Go home!”
“No!”
“Oh, Madelon, if you have ever loved me, go home!”
Madelon turned away at that. “I'll be there when they come for me,” said she, and went swiftly down the road and out of sight in the converging distance of trees, with the snow muffling her footsteps.